


Play the Game, Lay the Blame

by LittleMissPixieStix



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Abuse, hot shower time but it ain't sexy, not a shippy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4178979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissPixieStix/pseuds/LittleMissPixieStix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing had gone right for the BLU team.  They had not won a single match in the last week, and the team was tired of losing.  They were frustrated, tense, angry, and there was only one place to shove the blame.</p>
<p>Not on the Offense, not on the Defense, but on to a single member of the Support class.</p>
<p>The Medic.  </p>
<p>It was all the Medic’s fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play the Game, Lay the Blame

**Author's Note:**

> Fic originally posted here: http://littlemissfemscout.tumblr.com/post/119689620832/play-the-game-lay-the-blame
> 
> I might continue it later if anyone wants me to, but for now, it's a one-shot.

Nothing had gone right for the BLU team.  They had not won a single match in the last week, and the team was tired of losing.  They were frustrated, tense, angry, and there was only one place to shove the blame.

Not on the Offense, not on the Defense, but on to a single member of the Support class.

The Medic.  

It was all the Medic’s fault.

The BLU Heavy was one of the most frustrated of all.  The Russian had been keeping his anger locked up, but there was only so much losing that he could take.  

He found the Medic in the shower room, the man having headed there right after the match.  Instead of speaking, Heavy, who could move surprisingly quiet for his size, the Heavy stripped down for his shower, an idea forming in his mind.

The German had removed his Medigun and most of his clothes, hoping to get cleaned up quickly.  The others gave him looks of fury, glares filled with malice, and he wanted to shower quickly and then go be alone.  Alone away from the hostile atmosphere that was threatening to engulf him.

He hadn’t been expecting a large arm to wrap around his waist and shove him into a shower stall.  The Medic was slammed against the cold tile wall, body colliding into the shower’s handle.  Any cry of pain or shock from the Medic was cut off by a low, hostile growl.

“Doktor was disappointment to team,” The Russian said, “What does have to say for himself?”

The Medic, who was still wearing his glasses, glared back while straightening his spectacles, the harsh movement having jostled them.

“I was hardly the only one who could show improvement-”

It was a brave choice of words, but also a poor one.  The giant wrapped his arm tighter around the other’s waist, and then his words grew more threatening.  

If the Medic thought that he was going to shift the rightful - or what others thought was rightful - blame off of himself, then he was dead wrong.

Still, the German tried.

“How do you suppose it’s even possible to shoulder zhe loss on me?”

“Doktor is supposed to keep team alive.  Did  _horrible_ job,” The Heavy replied, annoyed at the smaller man’s arguing, “Everyone died over and over.  No excuses, Doktor.  Is your fault.”

“Is it my fault those dummkopf could not stay alive?” He asked, his worry and fear of the situation continuing to grow, “How am I supposed-”

The rest of his words were interrupted by the Heavy, whose anger had grown tenfold by the Medic’s continual denial of the situation.   The Russian moved to turn on the shower, leaving it lukewarm at first.  

The Medic sputtered, having been caught unprepared by the water.  Turning his head, he coughed, clearing his throat of the surprise drink he had received, and once more tried to pry the Heavy’s arm off of him.  

It didn’t work.

The Medic didn’t have a chance to escape the stream.  The Heavy’s massive hand held the man in place, leaving him unable to avoid the water.

“Doktor failed the team,” The Heavy said, his voice filled with deep malice, “For that, Doktor must suffer in pain like his team did.”

With those words, the water was turned up to its hottest level.  Out in the desert, the water temperature had three levels: cold as ice, lukewarm, or scalding hot.

The German cried out in pain as the water seared his skin.  He struggled, trying to find away to avoid the liquid lava that continued to pelt him.

“Heavy, stop zhis.” He begged,“ I am just one man,  Zhere are eight of you!  How am I supposed to keep everyone alive!?”

“Am tired of excuses, little man,” Heavy growled, moving his arm to hold tightly on to the Medic’s head instead, keeping his arm out of the burning water, “You are being punished for failure.  Take it like the coward you are deserves.”

Coward?  Him?  If he wasn’t in so much pain, he would have laughed.  Just because he didn’t have a gun that killed people, that didn’t mean that he was a coward.  

The opposite, in fact.  

He charged in to the battle, really no weapon to protect him, following after a team mate to keep them alive.  He walked through fields of bullets and bombs to assist others, to help the team.  He was the main target, the other team wanted him dead, and he had to count on others to protect  _him_  while he protected them.  It was a symbiotic relationship, and if one side withdrew their help, then they would both fall.

More often than not, his team mates were the ones that left him to do, and in doing so, they also killed themselves.  

Yet he was blamed for it.  Always him.  

Always his fault.

“Let” someone die?  Apparently that was his fault, even if it was their own incompetence that lead to their demise.  

Pick the wrong medi-gun for the day?  Even though he was the medical expert and knew what he was comfortable with, somehow it was always the wrong choice.   

Someone run by before he could heal them?  Scout would blame him; it was usually Scout who pulled this type of stunt.  Others would then join in the chorus of blame, all sounding out how their Medic wasn’t keeping them all alive at the same time.

He was trying.  Did they not understand that?  He was doing his best to accomplish the near impossible.  He wasn’t a God, he was a person, and yet everyone antagonized and belittled him for any mistake that happened, threatening to kick him off the team if he made another.

They all made mistakes.  None of them were perfect.  

No one was.  

Didn’t anyone see that?  Why was that so hard to understand?

Stoically, he stood the spray burning his already scalded skin.  He said nothing, instead thoughts of anger and shame swirling through his head.  He shouldn’t be in this position.  

No one should be.

His lack of reactions seemed to bore the Heavy, who let him go at last, though not before pushing him farther into the stall.  The Heavy then left the Medic and moved farther down, settling into his own stall and washing up.  

The Russian man didn’t look satisfied by his actions, frustration still showing on his face.  He was apparently too annoyed with the man to even be in the same room as the Medic, as he cut his shower short and left, towel around his ample waist, clothes over his arms.

Once alone, the Medic slowly , and carefully, dried his face with a towel.  His skin felt tight, and his body burned, sore.  The scalding wasn’t anything that he couldn’t fix, but he didn’t dare take the time to do it now.  When he made it to the Medi-bay, and he was alone, he would take the time to heal up to his injuries.

It was bad enough watching his back out on the field, but having to watch out for attacks from his team mates as well?  

That was terrifyingly sad.

If he couldn’t even trust BLU, his team, to help keep him protected, then who could he trust?

More and more, the answer seemed to be...

No one.

There was almost no one he could trust to have his back, there was almost no one he could trust to keep him safe out on the field.

Trust.  Something that took time to build, but could be gone in an instant, shattered by pain and fear.

All the Medic could do now was fix himself up, and try to do better tomorrow, so that no other punishing attacks would take place.  

That was all he could hope for now.

If there was even any hope for him left.


End file.
